


Brown Butter Peach Cobbler

by MostWeakHamlets



Series: A.Z Fell Cooking (aka vlogger au) [5]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Age Regression/De-Aging, Fluff and Humor, M/M, South Downs Cottage (Good Omens), Vlogger AU, the gang's all here in this one
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-03
Updated: 2020-08-30
Packaged: 2021-03-04 20:28:13
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 15,708
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25042405
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MostWeakHamlets/pseuds/MostWeakHamlets
Summary: While filming a new video for his YouTube channel, A.Z Fell Cooking, Aziraphale starts to feel off. The next morning, he's vanished, and neighborhood kids are claiming that he's in their basement--as an infant.How is Crowley supposed to cope?--In the middle of the damp room was a poorly-drawn entrapment circle in pink chalk, surrounded by burned incense sticks and scented candles. In the middle of the circle was a child, maybe only a year old, with white curls and blue eyes. His round cheeks were flushed from his fit, and he was swimming a child’s jumper. When he looked up at Crowley, he raised his arms as well as he could.It was definitely Aziraphale.
Relationships: Anathema Device/Newton Pulsifer, Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens), Beelzebub/Dagon (Good Omens)
Series: A.Z Fell Cooking (aka vlogger au) [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1610359
Comments: 96
Kudos: 274





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hopefully this AU still has an audience!
> 
> This story is part of a series, but you don't necessarily have to read all of the other works in it to know what's going on. If you're new and don't want to read all those other stories, here are a few things for context:  
> \- Aziraphale has a cooking/baking channel on YouTube that is mildly popular  
> \- Crowley (or "Anthony" to the audience) is very camera shy and is only around for taste-tests  
> \- Crowley, their first winter in the South Downs, due to anxiety, PTSD, and the cold was very ill (but is  
> nice and healthy in this fic as it takes place in the summer!)  
> \- They've adopted a cat, Antila 
> 
> This story is a bit different for this AU, but I thought about giving it a try anyway.
> 
> Also, please don't worry! This isn't a sad story. Chapter one is a little rough, but things become humorous very soon.

Aziraphale stumbled over his words for the third time. He pushed his script to the side of the island and looked over his failing dish. Crowley watched from the kitchen table as the angel sighed and ran his knuckles over his temples. 

“Are you alright, angel?” Crowley asked. 

“Not really.” 

Aziraphale tucked his hands under his arms, hiding them under the thick, fluffy cardigan he had picked out especially for that video. Crowley walked up behind him, turned off the camera, and gently placed his hand on Aziraphale’s back. 

“What’s wrong?” 

“I have a terrible headache,” Aziraphale mumbled, closing his eyes. “I can’t concentrate on anything.” 

Crowley hummed. “Maybe stop filming for the day. It’s getting late.” 

Aziraphale had been attempting to film his video for hours, only taking breaks when Crowley ordered food for them. The first peach cobbler he made had come out terribly, making him realize that he had totally forgotten about three key ingredients and mixed up the measurements of another two. He threw the dense, brick-like cobbler away and began filming all over again. 

Crowley fed him little bits of pasta and wine for lunch and grilled salmon for dinner, though he ate little of each. Crowley jokingly fussed over it, saying it wasn’t like him to barely eat. 

But now, Crowley noticed how pale the angel was. He pressed himself into the angel’s side and rubbed Aziraphale’s back. 

“Do you want to go to bed now?” Crowley asked. 

The summer sun was still in the sky, but in a matter of an hour, it would be gone. Crowley could open the windows to let in a breeze and close the dark drapes they had put up for Crowley’s sake in the winter. Maybe he would lay a cold compress on Aziraphale’s forehead or make him a cup of tea for Aziraphale to sip on. Maybe Aziraphale would like a back massage to ease some of the tension in his body. Whatever Aziraphale needed, Crowley owed it to him. 

Aziraphale nodded. Crowley waved his hand, and the dishes and countertop were clean. Everything was in its rightful place. There wasn’t a sugar tin cheekily waiting in the oven or an empty bowl sitting next to the milk in the fridge. 

Crowley lead Aziraphale to their bedroom and sat him down on their bed. He pulled out a light pair of pajamas and laid them in Aziraphale’s lap. Aziraphale looked up at him with a mournful look, telling Crowley that he was genuinely not feeling well but also was going to milk it for attention. 

“Do you need anything?”

“Water will be enough,” Aziraphale whispered. 

“Of course. Can you change while I’m gone?” 

Aziraphale nodded again. Crowley went back into the kitchen to make sure that his angel was going to get the most refreshing cup of water to ever come out of their tap. With a mumbled threat and a glare to the faucet, he filled a glass and then turned on the kettle for good measure. Within the hour, he fully expected Aziraphale to look at him with his sad eyes and ask Crowley, if he didn’t mind so terribly, to make him a cup of tea. 

Crowley had seen Aziraphale ill a handful of times, and he was always a little clingy and very sweet. 

He was returning to their bedroom when he heard a thud. His stomach twisted. “Angel?” 

He knocked on the door before opening it. And Aziraphale sat on the floor, hunched over, head dipped down. He was changed into his pajamas, but his shirt was still mostly unbuttoned. 

“What’s the matter, angel?” 

Crowley sat down next to him, setting the water aside on the nightstand. He looked even paler than before, and his brow was furrowed in pain. Crowley let him lean against him. 

“I was dizzy…” 

Crowley squeezed his shoulder. “Let’s get to bed, then. Think you can stand now?” 

“I think so.” 

“Alright. I’ll help you. Hold on to me.” 

Slowly, they rose and Crowley helped Aziraphale to lay back. It wasn’t usual for angels to get sick. They were immune to almost everything, though Crowley and Aziraphale learned that there were a few nasty viruses that managed to sneak through. 1958 was a rough year when Aziraphale came down with chickenpox after visiting a children’s hospital. Crowley had had his fun with strep throat and then, of course, the Great Immune System Nosedive of 2019. 

Crowley passed the water to Aziraphale, who took a few sips before passing it back with a little “thank you.” Crowley kissed his forehead as Aziraphale had done for him in the past. 

“You don’t feel feverish,” he said, beginning to button up Aziraphale’s shirt. 

“It’s just a headache. I’m sure I’ll be fine in the morning.” 

Whenever Aziraphale was feeling a tad under the weather, he had a tendency to be overdramatic. It was when he insisted he was feeling fine that Crowley worried. 

Antila jumped onto the bed, seemingly appearing out of nowhere but eager to claim a spot for bedtime. She sniffed Aziraphale’s hand and climbed onto his belly, purring and kneading. Crowley picked her up and laid her at the edge of the bed, by Aziraphale’s elbow. She gave Crowley a look that he interpreted as being a nasty glare but settled in her new place. 

“Just tell me if you need anything, okay?” 

Aziraphale nodded as Crowley tucked the sheets around him and laid a cold flannel over his forehead. And Aziraphale looked up at him so sweetly, like a child being put to bed by their mother, that Crowley couldn’t help but kiss his nose. 

Aziraphale smiled. He closed his eyes. 

Crowley was in his silk pajamas in an instant and laid down. The typical sleeping positions were changed, and it was Aziraphale who cuddled close to Crowley’s chest that night, his blonde curls being stroked. 

“Try to sleep, angel.” 

“I will.” 

“And I’ll make you breakfast in the morning. Whatever you want. It might need to be miracled, though, if you don’t decide on eggs.” 

“Eggs will be fine, my dear.” 

“Good. And I’ll make you hot cocoa.” 

“Ah. You do spoil me.” 

“Anything for you, angel.” 

Crowley dug his fingers into the base of Aziraphale’s head, right where it dipped into his neck. Aziraphale sighed. 

“Does that help any?” 

“Yes. Thank you.” 

Crowley continued his aggressive massage until he heard deep breathing. He listened to the almost-snores and other sleep sounds coming from his angel, gently removing the compress and turning off the bedside lamp. 

“Goodnight, angel.” 

* * *

Crowley woke up in a small puddle of his own drool. He shot up, wiped the side of his face with his sleeve, and pulled his hair away from the mess before laying back down in a dry spot. 

Then, he remembered Aziraphale.

He rolled over and looked at Aziraphale’s side of the bed. It was empty, but the sheets were still disturbed and the glass of water was still on the nightstand. 

“Angel?” 

Crowley rose and checked their bathroom. It was empty. He stopped in the hallway to listen for any movement. He hoped to hear pots and pans in the kitchen or pages in a book turning, but the house was silent save for Antila’s cries. 

He found her by her empty food bowl in the kitchen. She looked up at him and mewled. Aziraphale usually fed her breakfast, and it was long overdue. 

“One minute, Antila,” Crowley said, walking past her to look out into the garden. 

Aziraphale wasn’t there, either. 

“Aziraphale?” he called out. 

No response. 

His chest was beginning to feel tight. 

“Aziraphale, where are you?” 

Again, no response, and there was no rational explanation in Crowley’s head. His chest was tighter, and breathing wasn’t easy. He walked back through the sitting room and into their bedroom. 

Aziraphale’s outfit from the night before was still folded on the chair. His boots were by the window as usual.

Crowley checked the bathroom again. Antila cried when he made it back to the kitchen. He went back to the bedroom. The boots were by the window. 

He sat on the edge of the bed, legs shaking, and vision blurring with tears. Aziraphale always left notes behind when he was going out. He always told Crowley where he was going and when he expected to be back. It put Crowley at ease when he woke up alone and had trained him not to panic when he first noticed Aziraphale wasn’t around. 

But there hadn’t been a note anywhere. And Antila hadn’t been fed. Antila always had scrambled eggs in her bowl every morning at 9 am. She was spoiled by Aziraphale. He would never leave without feeding her. 

“Angel!” he called out, one last time. 

No response. 

Crowley had no plan. He didn’t know where to look or who to call. He couldn’t think about asking neighbors if they had seen Aziraphale around. He couldn’t think about Aziraphale’s favorite places to visit or even his own bookshop. 

He couldn’t not think about Aziraphale being in Heaven, vulnerable and surrounded by people who wanted him dead. And if he hadn’t fallen asleep, he could have kept an eye on Aziraphale and stopped whoever took him. 

Antila stood in the doorway and cried. She trotted over the Crowley’s ankles and batted at his leg. He picked her up. 

“I don’t know where he is,” he said, voice cracking. 

Antila cried with him, though for a different reason. 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley pulls himself together. Neighbor kids dabble in occultism.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Full disclaimer: I haven't met many babies.

Crowley woke up to a pounding at the front door. He sat up, startled, the heart he didn’t need racing. 

His face felt stiff from dried tears and his eyes felt puffy. He tried scrubbing his face with his sleeve, but it hardly helped. The pounding continued, echoing in his sore head. 

“Mr. Crowley! Mr. Crowley!” 

Children’s voices carried from the other side of the house, followed by more persistent banging. Crowley stood. His brain felt like it was floating in his head, and the hair on his head didn’t feel like his own. And he knew he had wasted time crying and panicking and sleeping when he could have been looking for Aziraphale. 

“Bloody kids,” he mumbled. 

A quick miracle untangled his hair and replaced his silk pajamas with leggings and a loose, mandarin collar tunic. He didn’t have the effort to make it appear like he was put together. And kids never seemed to judge what he wore or what he looked like. In fact, they liked his long, pleated skirts and strappy tops when they saw him on the beach, even when the ocean knotted his hair and sand stuck to his clothes. 

“What is it?”

A small fist missed the door as it opened. Three pairs of eyes looked up at him, more worried than kids ever had a right to be. 

Crowley knew the eldest, Mohammed. He was 15-years-old and helped him with yard work during the summers for money. Aziraphale adored him, and Crowley couldn’t complain. He was nice and smart, and he was built awkwardly with long, skinny limbs. But now, he looked older. His scowled and held himself a bit straighter with his arms crossed over his chest and legs apart. 

“Tell them what’s happened,” he said. 

Crowley was also familiar with his younger brother, Tad. He regularly caused a fuss in the neighborhood with his friends. Crowley secretly encouraged it. Aziraphale thought he could be a positive influence by lending them books and inviting them in for biscuits. A few good deeds would go a long way, he claimed. 

“Well,” Tad said, looking pale. “A week ago, Mr. Fell let us look at his library.”

“Okay,” Crowley said. He didn’t have time to hear about a first edition book they had dropped in a puddle or had lost at school. 

“And we took a book—he didn’t know that we took it—because it looked fun. It was something about demons and enchantments.” 

“Do you mean ‘entrapment?’” Crowley asked, stomach sinking. 

He knew exactly what book they were talking about. There was only one book on occultism in their cottage. Aziraphale had taken it from humans around the 19th century after a poor summoning. Crowley had been bored for three days before Aziraphale found him in the basement of a mansion. Once he got Crowley out of the demon’s trap, he snatched up the book and took it back to his shop where it was supposed to be safe under his supervision. 

“Maybe,” Tad said. “But we were playing with it last night. We didn’t really believe in demons. We thought they were made up. We thought we could just scare each other like we do when we mess with our ouija board. But then we said a few things, and it—it worked, Mr. Crowley.”

Crowley could only imagine who they had summoned. 

Worst case scenario: Beelzebub was sitting in an entrapment circle, buzzing with fury. Crowley certainly didn’t want to see them again even if Aziraphale had described them as being terrified at the holy water escapade. 

Best case scenario: it was an intern who was confused and worried about getting back to work. Crowley could handle them. Give them a pat on the back and tell them to buck up before giving them cab fare back to the gates of Hell. 

Tad wiped at tears building in his eyes. The young girl that was with him already had a steady stream running down her cheeks. 

“Okay,” Crowley said. “Um… what do you mean it worked?”

“Is Mr. Fell a demon?”

“What?” 

“Mr. Fell showed up. And he looked upset, and when we tried getting him back home—we don’t know what happened.” 

“So, you summoned my husband?” 

It was no wonder that Aziraphale felt so poorly. He was torn between being in the cottage and some kids’ play area. 

“When we tried reversing it, he just… faded a bit and then he was back.” 

“Okay. So, you can’t get him back?”

Tad took in a shaky breath. “We tried. He’s a baby now.” 

Crowley blinked. There was no way that he heard that right. “A baby?”

“Yeah. He has the eyes and the white hair.”

Mohammed rolled his eyes. He had the thick book tucked under his arm. 

“They’re lying,” he said. “I think it’s a friend’s little brother they’ve borrowed as a prank. I’ve told them to take him back home. But here’s the book.” 

_Entrapment of Daemons Whom Live Among Us._

That was it. It was the book that put Crowley in a basement. It wasn’t written by the most sophisticated humans, but they had put together centuries of passed-down knowledge that could easily cause all sorts of trouble. 

“Well,” Crowley said, tossing the book to the side. “Is there an adult with the kid?” 

He wouldn’t believe that it was actually Aziraphale until he saw the baby. It wouldn’t be the oddest form Aziraphale had taken (possessing Madame Tracy was at the top of the list, but Crowley had also had the misfortune to see Aziraphale’s true, celestial form more than once). They weren’t bound to their corporations, though it was highly convenient to stay put in them. Unless Crowley felt like basking in a sunny spot in his garden. That was an exception. 

“No,” Tad said. 

“Take me back with you, then. I can watch it. You can’t just leave a random infant with a bunch of school children.” 

“But it _is_ Mr. Fell!” Tad said. “We tried sending him back like the book said, but something went wrong. Just believe me!” 

“Just take me to the kid, alright?” 

The three of them lead Crowley out of the secluded area and into the actual neighborhood where families had their little homes and kids played in the streets. The youngest two sniffled as they got closer to Tad and Mohammed’s house. Crowley wondered why there had been no parents involved in the events of the past 24 hours. 

He could immediately hear the wailing of a baby when he stepped into the house. His stomach twisted at the thought of any child—Aziraphale or not—having been left in the care of young kids. Especially as they came closer to the desperate cries coming from the cellar. 

In the middle of the damp room was a poorly-drawn entrapment circle in pink chalk, surrounded by burned incense sticks and scented candles. In the middle of the circle was a child, maybe only a year old, with white curls and blue eyes. His round cheeks were flushed from his fit, and he was swimming a child’s jumper. When he looked up at Crowley, he raised his arms as well as he could. 

It was definitely Aziraphale. 

“We tried feeding him some mashed fruit, but he wouldn’t take it,” Tad said. “And we put him in a jumper because he, uh, lost his clothes during everything.” 

Two kids sat around the circle, holding a bowl of mashed… something and a looking worried. Crowley sighed.

He approached the circle. “Let me see him.” 

He scuffed a break in the circle with his boot and picked up Aziraphale. Immediately, he calmed. Definitely Aziraphale. 

“Alright, everyone. Upstairs. Now.” 

The kids shuffled up the stairs, followed by Crowley. Aziraphale cooed on his hip, grabbing his shirt in a tiny, chubby fist and reaching for his sunglasses. Crowley pulled his hand away and rubbed the squishy palm between his thumb and forefinger. 

“Now,” Crowley said, once they were gathered in the kitchen. “I don’t want _any_ of you messing with the occult ever again. It’s far too dangerous, and you were lucky you ended up with a baby. You could have had someone _far, far_ worse.” 

The kids sniffled and nodded. Mohammed crossed his arms, unsure of what to make of the lecture. Crowley batted away Aziraphale’s hand from his face again. He straightened his sunglasses. 

“And furthermore, it is a bit rude to nick something from someone who just wants to help you.”

“We’re sorry, Mr. Crowley.” 

“Sorry, Mr. Crowley.” 

Crowley sighed. The kids were a mess. But he couldn’t leave them like this: traumatized and aware of the secrets that would do them more harm than good. There was only one group of human kids he felt okay with knowing what was real, and that was mostly because one of those kids outranked him. 

He balanced Aziraphale in one arm and snapped. The kids froze, eyes glazing over. Aziraphale made a distressed sound and wiggled. 

“Alright. Alright. We’ll get you home soon.” Crowley paced in front of the kids like a drill sergeant at inspection. “Now, you won’t remember any of this. That circle in your basement will be gone in a minute, and you’ll _never_ steal a book from Mr. Fell again. And wherever your parents are… they’re going to start keeping a closer eye on you. At least, they won’t fuck off so their kids can get into trouble. They’ll start… cooking you vegetables and reading you bedtime stories or something. I don’t know.” 

Crowley moved towards the front room. No one would think it odd that he was entering the home empty-handed and leaving with a baby in an oversized jumper. Well, he could change the last detail and spare himself the energy.

He snapped and Aziraphale was in a smaller, kid-friendly version of his usual attire. His trousers were now shorts, his boots were fashionable booties with high socks, and his top was a short-sleeved button-down with suspenders and a bowtie. It was far too silly, but it looked natural on the little angel. 

“Far too many miracles today,” Crowley said.

With one last snap, the kids were back to full functions. A plate of biscuits was laid out to distract them (and perhaps comfort them) as Crowley stepped out the front door. 

* * *

Crowley sat Aziraphale on the sitting room floor. Immediately, he began to fuss and reach for Crowley. 

“Give me a minute, angel.” 

Aziraphale whined and grasped the air. Crowley ignored him and sat on the edge of the sofa, opening _Entrapment of Daemons Whom Live Among Us_ on his lap. If he knew what the kids had been doing, then he could reverse it. Maybe. Hopefully. 

He already knew that a miracle, performed a few times on the walk back, did nothing to age Aziraphale. Miracles on their corporations were easy. Broken bones could be mended and bruises could be healed within seconds. But miracles on their beings—what consisted of Aziraphale’s Heavenly grace and his version of a soul—were a different story. The entirety of Aziraphale had been affected just as it had been when he discorporated during the apocalypse. 

“Let’s see what those brats did to you.” 

Thankfully, there was a dog-eared paged, and Crowley knew that Aziraphale would never dog-ear a book of that age and importance. Only soft, clean bookmarks were to be used. 

There was a sketch of a hooved and horned demon on the page. Crowley hummed at the microaggression and moved on. He skimmed through the first invocations, shaking his head at all the unnecessary offers and speeches to Lucifer and “Astaroth.” It really didn’t take such theatrics to get a demon. It was really the entrapment circles that did most of the work and the energy put out by humans. Humans had more power than they realized, and just by simply willing hard enough in the right environment, they could get who they wanted. 

Crowley read the final invocation. 

_I call on the power of God, Christ, and the Holy Spirit, the True and One Commander of us all. Daemon, I command you to appear. I supplicate you for your image and your partnership. I pull you from your peace and remove you from your dwelling._

The kids were probably scared when they read it (and God knows how long it took them to get it right). They probably hoped for a “kind” demon that wouldn’t kill them or curse them and would instead give them a blessing of sorts if they asked for it—good marks in school, a love interest to notice them. They didn’t have power-hungry, destructive intentions like Crowley had been met with. 

Which meant they got Aziraphale, not really a demon but from the same stock at least. 

He could picture his angel, looking put out in the circle, in his pajamas. He probably gave the children a good scolding before they tried reversing the ritual. 

_I am satisfied with your company. I return you to your peace with your obligations to our pact._

What would an attempted pact with Aziraphale even be? Regular cakes? Hand-knitted sweaters? Aziraphale wouldn’t agree to anything after being pulled from bed, of course. He was far too stubborn.

_And if your responsibilities are avoided, have God, Christ, and the Holy Spirit remove you of your power and grandiose, punished to be lower than those who summoned your presence. Remove you of all ability to work among Earth and companionship with humans—_

The page was ripped from the book. 

“Angel!” 

Aziraphale fell back on his behind, the page in his hand. He tried standing again, grabbing Crowley’s knees and the book for support. Crowley pulled the book away and sat Aziraphale on his lap. He pried the page out of his hands, tearing it further in the process. 

“Angel… you know better than this.” He showed Aziraphale the torn paper. “Don’t hurt books. Hurting books is bad, alright?” 

Aziraphale didn’t seem to care. Or understand. He was definitely under a year old. 

Crowley tried looking at the pieces of the page as Aziraphale tried climbing him. He growled and threw them aside. He could put together what happened: Aziraphale was summoned through a pact ritual, a pact was never made, and rules were rules. 

When Crowley had been summoned, he had been able to say no. Certain rituals had certain rules, and Crowley was by no means obligated to fulfill any long-term pact. He was there for the spectacle alone. 

But Aziraphale was “punished to be lower than” those kids. And who had less power than a group of pre-teens? 

Aziraphale tugged on Crowley’s hair. 

A baby. 

“Okay, I get it. You need attention. You’re still a bloody needy, clingy angel, aren’t you?” 

Aziraphale plopped down on Crowley’s lap. Crowley frowned at his wide, mostly-toothless smile.

Crowley wasn’t _bad_ with children. He raised Warlock for a few years. But he also wouldn’t say that he was very good with them. He didn’t know how much they needed to eat or sleep or how delicate they were. Though, he could assume that Aziraphale would be a little more durable than a human child. Powerless or not, he still had the flowery smell of an angel—like he had just taken a bath in lavender oils in a room full of peony candles. It was the smell of grace, Crowley knew. All angels carried it as demons tended to smell of dirt after rain. 

“How do we get you back?” Crowley asked. 

Aziraphale shoved his fist in his mouth. Crowley cringed at the drool collecting around his chin. 

“Is that a ‘I don’t know?’” 

Aziraphale hummed. At least on Crowley’s lap, he looked content. And after the trauma that he had just been through with being stuck in a cellar with kids, Crowley didn’t have it in him to deny him any comfort. 

“I’ll get you back. I promise, angel. Even if I have to appeal to God Herself.” 

Aziraphale laid back into Crowley’s chest, and Crowley couldn’t help but smile. He wrapped his arm around his angel and let him get comfortable. A comfortable, coddled Aziraphale was always a happy Aziraphale. It was all Crowley could do for him at the moment, and if it was all he could do then, he would do it well. 

“Angel!” Aziraphale had grabbed Crowley’s hand with his own drool-soaked one. He looked up at Crowley as if he did nothing wrong. “That is absolutely revolting. I can’t wait till your back in your own bloody body.”

Aziraphale laughed. Cheeky bastard. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading! I am so thankful for the response the first chapter received, and I hope that everyone continues to enjoy the story as it continues. 
> 
> If you'd like more updates on the AU, check out my Tumblr! I write little things there all the time.
> 
> Also, there's a new discord server for the AU: https://discord.gg/YS5qvrh


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aziraphale eats cake. Crowley tries his best.

Just like he did for Aziraphale almost every week, Crowley set up their camera and laptop in front of the kitchen island and tidied up the background. He straightened the plants on their countertops and spent too long arranging their pot of utensils and hanging pots over the stove. 

Aziraphale sat on the floor, happily shoving a piece of cake in the general direction of his mouth. Crowley hadn’t managed to get him to find interest in any other food. He only wanted desserts and since they didn’t exactly need nourishment, Crowley figured that it couldn’t be so bad to give in. It might give the brat a bit of an attitude to appease him at every chance, but Crowley would deal with that later when he gathered his bearings. 

“Alright,” Crowley said, looking down at the messy child. “You need to be quiet while I do this.” 

Aziraphale cooed. He shoved the last of his cake in his mouth, smearing frosting on his cheeks and dropping sizeable crumbs on the floor. Crowley wrinkled his nose. A bath would come later. 

“I’m serious,” Crowley continued, hoping that his Aziraphale was still in there, able to understand what he was saying. “No little baby sounds. And don’t start crying.” 

Aziraphale looked away, turning a chubby, messy cheek to Crowley. So much for the adult angel being in there somewhere (though perhaps the adult Aziraphale would also react like that). 

Crowley wasn’t good at being in front of a camera. While he had no problem being a spectacle in everyday life, driving a vintage car at ridiculous speeds and dressing like a washed-up rockstar, being in front of a camera reduced him to a shy, awkward mess. He didn’t know if it was because he was suddenly there for people to look at over and over again with a comment section to discuss him in. Or if it was because Aziraphale had free reign over the videos and therefore his image and could make him look as kind as he wanted. Maybe it was because being perceived by strangers on the street was one thing but being examined by the same followers every week was another. Or maybe, like most humans experienced, he simply hated seeing and hearing himself on a screen and realizing how everyone else saw and heard him. 

But for Aziraphale, he would make a short video. Followers had noticed that he had missed an update that Monday—his usual upload time—and without any announcement of a break or technical trouble, they had begun leaving comments on his channel and tweeting at him (or tweeting at Crowley as Aziraphale wanted nothing to do with social media beyond YouTube (“I’m not interested in having a Chirpy account.” “It’s called Twitter, angel. You know that.”) and had left Crowley to run all of it). Most were concerned as Aziraphale hardly broke his strict schedule, and others were entitled and whiny. Regardless, Crowley thought that they needed an answer before total anarchy happened. 

“Uhh… hello.” 

Crowley cringed. An awful opening. How did Aziraphale usually do it? He always made it look so natural. 

“Welcome—no.” 

Crowley growled in frustration. Whatever he went with it, it would be awkward and painful. Aziraphale gurgled from the floor and tried pulling himself up by Crowley’s chair. 

“What did I tell you?” Crowley said. “Sit back down.” 

Aziraphale bounced for a few seconds before losing his balance and falling back down on his bottom. Unhappy with that, Aziraphale began reaching up for Crowley and whining. 

“I can’t hold you right now. Here.” Crowley snapped and another baby-appropriate slice of cake from the counter was on a plastic plate in front of Aziraphale. “Don’t get sick.” 

Aziraphale grabbed a handful of cake and dropped most of it on the floor and his powder blue onesie. Even more pink frosting was smeared around his mouth and on both hands. The immediate vicinity was a disaster with dessert spread over the floor and on chairs. 

“Zira isn’t making a video this week because he’s… not here. He’s, uh…” Crowley turned to Aziraphale on his left. “I don’t even have an excuse.”

Aziraphale lost interest in eating and decided that squeezing the sponge cake in his fist was more fun. He watched the cake squish out between his fingers and, pleased with the results, showed Crowley. 

“That’s nice, but not helpful.” 

He decided that a message typed up and shared in the community tab would be quicker and less cringe. 

_Zira won’t be posting this week. He hates to disappoint, but his family needed him out of town. All’s well, but he’ll be gone for the foreseeable future._

_—Anthony_

It was up. Crowley shut the laptop, making a mental note to remember that “Zira Fell” had family who lived out of town now. Aziraphale raised his arms again, legs kicking and pajama-clad foot going straight into the cake. 

“Fine.” 

Crowley lifted him up and placed him on his hip. The kitchen floor was clean—plate in the sink, cake in the bin, and floors free of all half-chewed and sticky messes—in a minute. He had yet to try to bathe Aziraphale in the two days that they had been together in his new form, but maybe there would be a first time for everything. And they both desperately needed to be cleaned up. 

Aziraphale whined. 

“I’m holding you. What else do you want?” 

Aziraphale coughed. He hiccuped. Spit up dribbled down his chin and the front of Crowley’s shirt. Crowley froze and refused to look down at his soiled clothes and tried ignoring the warm, wet sensation on his chest. 

“What did I tell you? I said don’t get sick.” 

He closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and when he opened them the mess was gone. Aziraphale was entirely clean now in a new outfit that consisted of a jumper, tan shorts, and frilly socks. A bath would be an adventure for later, Crowley thought, focused on how drained he felt. 

He walked Aziraphale to his library, a seemingly small study that used to be a bedroom to strangers. But for Crowley and Aziraphale only, it was bigger on the inside, full of ceiling-high bookcases and an overstuffed loveseat with an afghan for cozy reading days. Crowley attempted to plop Aziraphale down on it, but the angel immediately protested with a cry. He picked Aziraphale back up and carried him to the middle of the room, patting his back and soothing him with gentle hushes. 

“Do you have anything else about curses and rituals?” 

Aziraphale hummed and nestled into Crowley’s shoulder. Crowley couldn’t deny that there had been sweet moments since Aziraphale had turned into a child. Even though Aziraphale was perhaps the most difficult child he had ever encountered, he could be a darling when he wanted to be. 

It was all part of a ploy, Crowley thought. He would be cute when he wanted a cuddle or when he took a bottle, and then Crowley wouldn’t be able to say no when he wanted to be held or to eat cake rather than the full, nutritious meals Crowley had made for him. It would be just like Aziraphale to con Crowley like that. 

Crowley made sure Aziraphale was steady on his left hip and snapped his fingers. The books slid out of their shelves and began presenting themselves to Crowley in an orderly fashion, dancing around his head in hopes of being picked. He had watched Aziraphale do this before when deciding on what he wanted to read and then when he fancied reading multiple books at once. 

Crowley read every cover before sending them on their way. He waved away the Dickens, Wilde, and Austin until there were only dreary non-fiction left that Crowley was certain wouldn’t help. 

Aziraphale tried reaching for the books that danced around them, happily crying out as they passed by. He nearly grabbed one, but it dodged his little fingers just in time. 

“There’s nothing here. How is there nothing here? How do we only have that useless entrapment book?” 

The room stilled when Crowley waved on the final books. They returned to their homes (the well-organized homes Crowley made for them). Aziraphale clapped his pudgy hands together, very impressed with the show he just witnessed. Crowley sighed. 

“I’m sure you have something at your bookshop,” he said. “Why you decided to leave your occult books with humans is beyond me.” 

Crowley did in fact know where the heavy-duty occult books were and not just the ones with a few, useable rituals (trying to use _Entrapment of Daemons Whom Live Among Us_ had resulted in a disappointing, frustrating 24 hours). They were in the very back of the old bookshop in a locked chest, collecting a thick layer of dust. Only Aziraphale and Anathema had keys to it, and Anathema was under very strict orders to never open it until Aziraphale told her, in-person, to do so. 

He looked down at the angel in his arms. Aziraphale cooed and settled against Crowley’s shoulder which was starting to ache from holding the baby. His entire body, really, felt heavy with exhaustion. His frame felt on the brink of collapse. His eyes were ready to close at any second. 

“I’m tired, angel.” 

Aziraphale hummed and made a sound that Crowley assumed meant that he agreed. 

Crowley sat on the loveseat, throwing his legs up and sinking back into the cushions that never lost their plushness. He held Aziraphale to his chest with one arm, getting a drowsy babble in response. 

“We’ll nap for a little bit and make plans for Soho after lunch.” 

Crowley could smell the pleasant, baby shampoo scent he had miracled on Aziraphale’s thin locks. He had to stop relying so much on miracles. They took up too much energy anymore (his months-long illness over the winter still left him weak well into June), and it was hard to keep up with a baby when he was easily tired. 

“We’ll be awake to leave town by this evening,” Crowley said, closing his eyes. 

Aziraphale babbled once more and grabbed Crowley’s shirt in a fist. 

The did not make it out of town by that evening. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have a special announcement! I've created a Discord server for this series! It'll be a nice place for people to get immediate notifications for updates of this series, act as an archive for the works I and others have created, and everyone can share recipes and dishes that they're making! It can also be a place for people to chat about the series if you wish to! 
> 
> Absolutely anyone can join, but please read through the rules if you join! Here is the link: https://discord.gg/YS5qvrh 
> 
> Discord is essentially a website/app for large groupchats. If you'd like to know more about it, feel free to ask me!


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Baby Aziraphale meets a witch and Newt is still bad with technology.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I actually don't know anything about Houdini, but I thought that I had read once that he and all other escape artists usually have their own custom locks and keys that they learn and study. I'm not positive about that anymore, though. But let's pretend. 
> 
> As always, check out my Tumblr (mostweakhamlets) if you'd like to see more content

Crowley didn’t know the first thing about car safety for babies, but he did believe that strapping Aziraphale into a car seat (in a car _not_ designed for modern child laws) was enough to keep him safe. And so it did. 

But it didn’t make Aziraphale enjoy it. He kicked his legs and flailed his arms as Crowley tried shoving them through the appropriate holes in the straps. He protested with a word Crowley assumed to be “no” and other shrieks so loud they could nearly shatter the Bentley’s windows. 

“Alright,” Crowley huffed as he finally clipped the buckles in place in front of Aziraphale’s chest. “There we go. Stay like that, and we won’t have any problems.” 

Aziraphale wiggled, tears beginning to spill out of his eyes and down his chubby, rosy cheeks. He let out one, heartwrenching sob as if nothing in the world was fair and he was the sole victim of all of life’s most cruel tricks. And with it, the buckles unclasped, and he was free. 

“No.” Crowley stared at the straps. “No. No. No. You can’t have your full facilities.” 

Aziraphale glared, most likely feeling betrayed that the nice man with the cakes and breads would imprison him. 

Antila cried out from her carrier on the ground, unamused with being left alone for so long. She had had a hard week, dealing with a baby pulling her tail and trying to pet her with a harsh hand before Crowley could intervene. The food was also less than ideal with Crowley putting overcooked eggs in her food bowl for breakfast. She had tried telling him that Aziraphale didn’t let them get so rubbery, but he, unfortunately, did not understand. And now she was being taken to London in a cramped carrier with only a few treats to sate her with a baby taking priority over her.

“How did you do that?” Crowley asked, beginning the process of wrangling the angel back into his straps anew. “You haven’t used a miracle before now.” 

Aziraphale, as an adult, had developed the habit of having Crowley perform miracles for him rather than do them himself. All he had to do was give Crowley a smile or a little pout and Crowley was weak. Everything from stains to emergency ingredients for a new cake was handled by him, and he received a chipper “Oh, thank you, dear” as a reward. 

As a baby, Crowley supposed he had given the spoiled brat everything he wanted, eliminating the need for Aziraphale to use a miracle. 

“Here.” Crowley conjured a stuffed bear roughly the size of an 11-month old child. Aziraphale reached for it. “You get this if you cooperate.” 

Aziraphale tried sitting forward to grab the bear, but Crowley pulled it away and sat it on the floor of the car and began dodging little blows again. The buckles clicked, and Aziraphale began his screaming once more. 

“Take it.” 

Crowley laid the bear over Aziraphale. It did its job, and Aziraphale calmed while gnawing on an ear and petting the soft fur. 

“You know, I give you everything you could want,” Crowley said, drying Aziraphale’s face and wiping his nose with a handkerchief. He grimaced at the mess, and it was sent into a different realm. “I gave you a Danish for breakfast—that you barely nibbled on, by the way—even though I had already made you eggs and fruit. I put you in a little short-sleeved shirt so you wouldn’t be hot on the drive. I even made sure you still had your tartan bowtie. And then I put little socks and shoes on you so you could bounce around in the garden before we left. You got a little flower and everything that I put in your hair. And this is how you treat me? You cry at me for making sure you’re safe.” 

Aziraphale continued chewing on the ear, slobber pooling from his mouth and into the fur. He pulled it out for a second before finding a new spot to shove into his mostly-toothless mouth. 

Crowley hoped that it would keep him distracted from unbuckling himself until the drive lulled him to sleep (for once, Crowley was willing to at a reasonable speed if it kept Aziraphale happy and drowsy). Briefly, Crowley pictured a tiny Aziraphale flying up in the front seat with him, wings spread out and proud. 

“You’re going up here with me,” Crowley said to Antila. “I don’t want you two getting into trouble back there. We’re already late.”

He had called Anathema that morning to let her know that they were all popping in for a visit that morning for business, but he had left out a few details. One of them being that their cat was going to be with them. The other being that Aziraphale was a baby. But surely she and Newt would understand and wouldn’t care too much that they wouldn’t be arriving until tea. 

Crowley slid a CD into the player, expecting to hear the first notes of Lizzo’s strong belt but upon remembering that he bought the album nearly a month ago, instead heard a nauseatingly (yet comforting) familiar acapella pondering an existential crisis and reality. It would do. 

He put the car in reverse and looked in the rearview mirror and saw only two little legs kick up in the backward seat. 

“How did you get your shoe off? I had double-knotted that!” 

* * *

In one arm, Crowley carried Aziraphale. In the other, he carried Antila’s crate. He wrestled both in the bookshop by kicking open the door and keeping it open with his back as he slid inside. 

Anathema stared at him as he made his way to the front desk. 

“What’s going on?” she asked. 

“I told you about the trunk over the phone, right?” 

“Yes. Is that a cat?” 

“Her name’s Antila. We couldn’t leave her alone. She has a few medical problems. I need your key to the trunk.” 

“Why can’t you use Aziraphale’s?” Anathema looked at the baby. “Who is that? Who does it belong to? Please don’t tell me you kidnapped a child. You can’t just do that.” 

Crowley sat the now totally shoeless Aziraphale on the counter. Anathema cringed as he wrinkled a few papers under his bottom and socked feet. 

“He belongs to me… I guess,” Crowley said. “I’ll give you one good guess to who it is.” 

Aziraphale tugged at his tartan bowtie and turned to Crowley. He held his arms out and whined until Crowley held his hands and whispered that he was still right there and that, no, he wasn’t going to let a witch take him and cook him. 

“Oh my god,” Anathema said, her eyes widening. “That can’t be Aziraphale.” 

“Yup. Now, kick out all of your customers and close the shop because we have angelic scrolls to sort through.” 

“No one’s been in since noon.” From the backroom that Aziraphale and Crowley had often communed it, Newt stepped forward. He froze in the doorway. “ _That’s_ Aziraphale? The angel?” 

“I’ll tell the whole story later,” Crowley said. “But right now, the shop needs to be closed, and you might have to do a few occult rituals with us.” 

“Okay,” Anathema said, a little shock in her voice. However, having being a descendent of a prophet and befriending the antichrist and two supernatural beings and seeing Satan himself on an airfield base, very few things shook her to her core. “Newt, can you lock the doors? What do you guys need again?” 

“I need in that big chest Aziraphale has in the very back. It has everything about occultism and angels he’s collected for the past 6,000 years.” 

“The ‘the humans know too much’ trunk. Why don’t you have Aziraphale’s key?” 

Crowley sighed. If he had the sense or energy to, he would have felt embarrassed. “He told me where it was last year, but I wasn’t exactly listening to him. And I couldn’t find it in our house this morning.” 

Anathema nodded, accepting it. She had witnessed Crowley zone out in many conversations before. “I have it in the back.” 

Crowley followed her, carrying Antila and Aziraphale along with him. Newt appeared behind them. He smiled and wiggled his fingers at the angel who smiled back. 

Anathema pulled her necklace out from under her blouse, revealing a key at the end of it. She opened a keepsake box on the top of her desk and pulled out another key amongst trinkets that Crowley assumed were occult. There were what appeared to be bones of some sort and a pendulum. There was also a gum wrapper and biscuit crumbs, which might have been in there by accident. 

Anathema held out the key but quickly pulled it back, narrowing her gaze at Crowley. 

“I’m only supposed to open this if Aziraphale tells me,” she said. “He said to only open the chest if tells me in person.”

“I think he would if he could.” 

“But how do I know that you want it for a good reason? And how do I know if I should break my promise to him?” 

“Because I said so.”

“And I can trust your word?” 

Crowley took a step forward, his long legs letting him easily close the space between him and the witch. He looked down at her with a nasty scowl and a hiss at the back of his throat. Pulling off his sunglasses, the whites of his eyes were swallowed by his yellow irises. His teeth began to sharpen into venom-dripping fangs. 

“Because if you don’t, I can _make_ you. I can take that key from you and send you back to America in the blink of an eye and send him,” Crowley pointed at Newt, “to a tree in South Africa, right above a protective mother lion and her cubs.”

“Why do _I_ get sent to South Africa?” 

“I can take that key from your hand and get everything out of that chest before you even know what’s happened. I’m _very_ tired, and I’m _very_ willing to do anything I need to get to those texts and get Aziraphale back in his proper body. And I think you forget that I’m the serpent of Eden. I caused humanity’s downfall. Nothing’s beneath me.” 

Anathema glared, but her lip twitched when quiet singing from Aziraphale cut through the silence of the room. 

“ _Baba ba ba baaa._ ” 

Crowley looked at his companion. “I’m trying to intimidate the humans.” 

Aziraphale continued singing his rendition of Lizzo’s “Don’t Stop Me Now” and grabbed at the sunglasses atop Crowley’s head, tangling the stems in his hair. Anathema laughed and handed the key to Crowley. 

“Take it,” she said. “But if you release an awful angelic curse on the shop, it’s your responsibility.” 

Crowley’s appearance had returned to normal—as normal as it usually was. He tugged his glasses out of his hair with a wince and shoved Aziraphale at Newt. 

“Hold him for a minute.” 

Newt assumed a natural stance and held Aziraphale close on his hip. To Crowley’s surprise, Aziraphale adjusted without his attention and laughed at the faces Newt pulled. It seemed that while Crowley’s attention was preferred, Aziraphale would soak it up from anyone who would give it to him. 

Crowley unlatched Antila’s cage. She darted under the sofa (the same sofa Aziraphale had had in the shop for a century) with a cloud of fur following her. 

“She’ll be fine,” Crowley said when he saw how annoyed Anathema looked. “She’s well-behaved. She just needs a litter box and water.” 

He snapped and both were placed near the sofa. Anathema sighed. Kitty litter and fur and dander could no doubt damage the books beyond repair, but Crowley didn’t seem to care. 

“Let’s go,” he said. 

If one were to walk from the front of the bookshop to the spiral staircase, take a left, pass a curtain that led to a smaller room with dry books on Spanish horticulture, and then open a false, warped cabinet below one of the bookcases, they would find a storage trunk from the late 1780s with a padlock dangling from the front. It was in rough shape—the leather and wood scratched up and rust settling in the hinges—but it served its purpose well. 

“If this is supposed to be a secret and kept away from humans,” Newt said, “then why is it here?”

“The bookshop is protected by sigils,” Crowley said, pulling the trunk to the middle of the room. “That and he didn’t want to take valuable information with us in case one of our people caused trouble. It’s safer away from us, I guess. I didn’t agree with him, but here we are.” 

“But what if a human found it?” 

“They wouldn’t be able to open it. For starters, it weighs about a ton. It’s lined with metal and spells. I doubt anyone would be able to pull it out on their own. Also—” 

Crowley grabbed the hefty lock and rubbed his thumbs over it. Like a soft Edam being peeled out of its wax, it fell off to reveal another, smaller padlock. The metal crumpled in Crowley’s hands and then disappeared in dust. 

“Don’t ever say that he isn’t clever with his tricks,” Crowley said. 

He slid the key into the lock and turned. Anathema and Newt joined him on the floor, watching in silent awe. 

“So, you have to not only _know_ that it’s a false lock,” Anathema said. “You need magic to take it off.” 

“He got the idea from Houdini’s custom locks and keys in the 1900s.” 

Crowley had reluctantly accompanied Aziraphale to a show in 1907, and it had, unfortunately, sparked an interest in escape arts. Aziraphale became fascinated in locks and ropes and often Crowley had to unchain him from wherever he was. But it did lead to Aziraphale showing Crowley his newest trick—a false lock over his most important possessions. No one would ever know. Not even the archangels. _Thankfully_ , not even the archangels. 

Crowley opened the trunk, the lid complaining and resisting all the way. Immediately, he had a headache and felt waves of holiness radiating off of it. But there were neat stacks of scrolls and books and a wooden box, and Crowley finally felt relief for the first time that week. 

“Some of this is going to be useless. Some of it is what Aziraphale took straight from occult groups,” he said. “And most of it’s from Heaven. Whenever angels find something that could be dangerous to humans, they take it and store it in their own files. And Aziraphale, the bastard, snagged what he could at times from their library for his own entertainment.” 

“How can you call this baby a bastard?” Newt asked. 

Aziraphale had taken to standing with the help of Newt. He excitedly cooed and bounced and turned to Crowley for approval. 

Crowley leaned in close. “Bastard.” 

Aziraphale squealed in delight. Crowley grinned. Some days, Aziraphale would smirk at the endearment and others he would feign offense and stick his nose up. Crowley missed it. 

“So,” Crowley continued, “we just need to find what’s worth reading.” 

“What are we looking for?” 

“Anything about entrapments and summoning and how to reverse them. If there’s anything about pacts, then that’s even better.” 

“Was he summoned?” Newt asked. “How do you summon an angel?”

Crowley ignored the question and shoved the box at him. He picked up a thin book and dropped it on Anathema’s lap.

“This is just an encyclopedia of demons,” Anathema said. “Think it’ll work?” 

“No. See if I’m in it, though.” He shoved his burning hand back in the trunk. 

Anathema laid it on a velvet upholstered wingback chair. “This is our ‘definitely no’ pile.” 

“Put this over there, then.” Crowley handed her a leather-bound book on angelic languages. “And be careful. You don’t know the trouble we’ve been through to get these away from humans. And angels.” 

Crowley pulled out a few scrolls, carefully laying them aside and breathing through the pain of his palms blistering. 

“What are those?” Anathema asked. 

“They’re from the 4th century. They might be useful. I think they were written in some temple after demons showed up on Earth—demons beside me. They managed to trap one by luck, and it wasn’t… it wasn’t pretty.”

Meanwhile, Newt had pulled a transparent sheet of glass from the box. He flipped it around in his hands, looking for a hidden message if he held it at the right angle. 

“I give up,” he said. “I don’t know what this is—oh! It did a thing.” 

The glass had flickered. A purple light had appeared for a second before white lines ran through it and then disappeared. Aziraphale stared with wide, captivated eyes. 

“It’s just an eReader from Heaven,” Crowley said, turning back to the mostly empty trunk. “Angels went digital this century. Aziraphale only knew how to use that to pirate copies of anything he wanted out of pure spite. I think he has a dozen bootlegs on it.”

“Oh,” Newt said, a touch pale. 

“Oh,” Anathema repeated. 

They stared at one another. Crowley looked between them, clueless. He laid another book in the “give it a chance” pile. 

“Is there a chance,” Anathema said, “that your luck with computers doesn’t apply to eReaders?” 

“It does. I’ve ruined many Kindles.” 

“What about Holy eReaders?” 

“I think what I saw… was it dying in my hands.” 

“What did you do?” Crowley snatched the mini-computer from his hands. His heart sank in his chest, and his head spun with either anger or pain. 

“I’m really not that good with computers,” Newt said, the pitch of his voice rising and his words stumbling out of his mouth. “Every time I touch one, it causes power outages and small fires. I didn’t know what that was! I wouldn’t have opened it if I had—please don’t send me to South Africa. The lion will win.” 

Crowley tapped the screen a few times. Sure enough, it didn’t respond. Not even an error message or a flash of light. He growled in frustration.

“It’s ruined.”

“There has to be something else here we can use if we just look hard enough and apply some critical thinking skills,” Anathema said. 

Crowley tossed the eReader back into the trunk. He looked around them. There weren’t many books and journals and scrolls to begin with, and all but four of them had landed in the ‘definitely not’ pile. 

“It’ll be just like university,” Anathema said. “We can make a pot of coffee and go at it until we figure something out. We just have to stay calm.” 

There had to be some text around, Crowley thought, that gave him some idea of how to reverse a failed pact. Reasonably, he knew this. But the anxiety bubbling in his gut and fogging his brain persuaded him into believing that there was no hope and that he was continuing to fail Aziraphale. He would never get back to his corporation, and Crowley was going to have to deal with him being a baby forever. 

Or would Aziraphale grow like a normal child? Would he, in 50 years’ time, return to how Crowley had known him? With fine lines around his eyes and the loveable, soft middle of an older man? Was he going to age beyond that? 

Would his hands grow stiff with arthritis? Would his manicured nails grow brittle and crack? Would spots creep up over protruding veins and paper-thin skin? Would they shake and become weak and pass jars and bottles to Crowley’s? Would they feel the same when held?

Would his hair turn gray or recede away from his forehead? Would he fall? Would he need taken care of and a schedule for medication and a strict, prescribed diet? Would his eyes cloud over as his vision faded and memory crumble? Would he remember Eden? 

Would he know Crowley’s name at the end? And where would he go? Could he return? Or was he know burdened with a human soul that would find an eternal home in a memory stick in Heaven? 

_“Shit!”_

Crowley hissed in pain. Aziraphale had crawled to his side and grabbed his hand. His tiny fingernails had scraped at the damaged skin of his fingers, and he didn’t let go until Crowley had yanked his arm back. 

“Oh my god, what happened to your hands?” Anathema asked. 

Aziraphale looked up at Crowley with a pout and tear-filled eyes. There really only was one person who could drag him out of his thought-spirals before they led to full-blown anxiety attacks. 

“Burned them,” Crowley said. “Holy things do that.” 

“Let’s bring everything we need upstairs.” Anathema began piling the discarded texts back into the trunk. “And we can do something about your hands.” 

They were an angry red, swollen, and blistered. Air alone made them pulse in pain, and Aziraphale had made his right hand feel as if he had stuck it into Hellfire. The back of his neck was covered in a cold sweat. He felt slightly sick. He wanted to soak the burns in ice water and lay down for a few minutes. 

Aziraphale wailed. Crowley petted his head with the back of his hand. If Aziraphale still had full facilities, he was most likely just as empathetic as he had been. 

“It’s alright,” Crowley hushed. “It’ll be okay.” 

With only the best intentions, Newt picked up Aziraphale and settled him on his lap in hopes of calming him down and carrying him upstairs. But Aziraphale thrashed and screamed at the top of his tiny, little, inhuman lungs. 

And the power went out, bulbs bursting around the shop and showering the floor with glass and sparks. 

“Today hasn’t been your day, has it?” Anathema asked, shouting over Aziraphale’s cries. 

Crowley assumed she was talking to him. She was right. 

He took a deep breath and prepared himself for the pain that would come with a snap. 

_Let there be light._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Also: new discord for this AU/series where you can share your own recipes/see the recipes featured in this AU/just chat with others! Anyone is welcome! Feel free to share this with your friends if you think they'd be interested. Invite link: discord.gg/YS5qvrh


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A lot of studying and cleaning a suspiciously messy baby.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm realizing that this chapter is a little lame. Its main purpose is to set things up for the rest of the story. However, we do get some good baby content. 
> 
> Enjoy!

Crowley shoved the last piece of cake into Aziraphale’s mouth, scraping in the frosting that had covered his cheeks along with it. He hummed in appreciation and waved his arms as if it was the first time he had ever had sponge cake with strawberries. 

“Is it a good idea to only give him junk food?” Anathema asked. “I haven’t seen him eat a vegetable since you guys have been here.” 

She was right. In the two days that they had been back in the bookshop, Aziraphale had only eaten cakes and crepes and a little bowl of dry cereal with fruit neatly cut by Newt. Anathema had tried coaxing him into eating a singular piece of broccoli, but he simply turned his head away each time it got close to his mouth and eventually looked to Crowley for help. Crowley told her that he was nervous about a witch fattening him up to cook. 

“He’s fine,” Crowley said. “He doesn’t even need to eat. He’s just spoiled.” 

Aziraphale squirmed in his high chair. Newt stepped up with a damp towel to wipe his face and hands clean. 

“And who spoiled him?” Newt asked with a cheeky grin. 

Crowley glared. “Who destroyed our most valuable resource?” 

Newt cleared his throat and ducked his head, scrubbing at the cake on Aziraphale’s fingers. Crowley had forbidden Newt from directly helping with the research and instead had placed him in charge of babysitting. But since Aziraphale would pitch a fit any time he couldn’t see Crowley, babysitting always took place in the kitchen where Anathema and Crowley worked, which led to Newt chiming in every time either of them brought up a question. 

He had proven himself to be helpful. He had a good mind, Anathema said, when he connected information to each other. Books referenced one another and scrolls, written in a tongue only Crowley knew, gave only vague information. It took their collective brainpower to apply everything to the bigger picture: what made up summoning rituals and pacts, and how do they affect a corporation. 

It felt like a large jigsaw puzzle, and Newt’s eyes weren’t yet tired of staring at the pieces. 

“Why don’t you know about any of this?” Anathema had asked on their first night. 

“It’s not really knowledge we’re just given. Angels and demons aren’t out there summoning one another or making pacts. Only humans do that.”

“Since humans can make demons and angels less powerful than them if they break a pact,” Newt asked. “Then what would happen if a less-powerful angel summoned a more powerful demon and tried making a pact?” 

“I don’t know why they’d go to all that trouble when they could just call the other for a favor.” 

“But aren’t angels and demons power-hungry like humans?” 

Crowley hadn’t answered. Of course, they were. Having been both, Crowley knew that the entire business was about climbing ladders and charming your superiors. But angels and demons didn’t _need_ to hold the other hostage on an individual basis. Not really. They just went at it with swords and battle strategies every 6,000 years. 

Anathema pulled a thick bundle of parchment close to her. “This one’s in Latin.” 

She passed it to Crowley who took it with his now-gloved hands. He untied the twine that held it together and gingerly picked up the front page. 

“It was written by some priest in 853 A.D. It’s the ‘Detailed Accounts Of An Entrapped Demon.’” Crowley passed it back. The text was suddenly in perfectly-translated Modern English. “I don’t remember anyone else being up here then. It might be bullshit.” 

“I’ll read it anyway,” Anathema said. 

Crowley returned to his own book. It was a ritual book that had very little information that he was finding to be useful. He scribbled a note on his messy sheet of paper. 

_pacts — > exchange of power between realms —> demon summoning angel even possible? —> humans needed? _

Below it, he wrote: _what do humans lose?_

Humans, contrary to popular belief, couldn’t sell their souls. But Crowley didn’t know if they lost anything in successful deals. It was reasonable to assume _something_ had to be traded, but it turned out that humans were rubbish at making successful pacts—or at least writing it down when they happened. Or maybe demons were good at destroying evidence. 

“I think Aziraphale needs a nap,” Newt said. 

Aziraphale was laying against his chest, blinking heavily. He whined and reached out to Crowley. 

“Then put him to bed,” Crowley said. 

“Uh… we don’t have a crib.” 

Crowley sighed. He snapped. “Now you do. Right in the other room.” 

“He hasn’t slept this entire time,” Anathema said, only half-interested. “Why does he need to now?” 

“He’ll sleep for 20 minutes and be back to screaming for attention for a week before needing another nap.” 

When Newt stood, Aziraphale began crying. Crowley sighed and stood with them. Aziraphale held out his arms and tried with all of his little strength to kick away from Newt. He let out a signature wail that was becoming more annoying than heart-breaking. 

“I got him,” Crowley said. 

Aziraphale struggled to catch his breath. Crowley took him in his arms and patted his back on his way to the sitting room. 

Anathema and Crowley had kept most of Aziraphale’s old furniture around the flat. There was good reason to. They had all been kept in immaculate shape, and they were beautiful, matching Victorian pieces. There was still a touch of the couple, though—drying flowers hanging from the wall, a tablet, potted plants, and a blanket made by Newt’s mother. 

“What’s wrong?” Crowley asked, sitting on the sofa. Next to them, Antila woke up from her nap and glared at the screaming child. “You were fine when you had your snack. You were eating cake. Is that it? Too much cake?” 

He bounced Aziraphale on his lap but immediately stopped when Aziraphale trashed his head back and forth. 

“No!” he cried. It was the only true word he knew. 

Crowley pulled him close to his chest in an awkward cradle. “Are you really just that tired? Do you want to lay down? Sleep? Do you want sleep?” 

Aziraphale, by some miracle, understood. He nodded. Crowley nodded back and carried him to the crib that had been placed in the middle of the room. There was a simple mobile with stars and planets hanging over the side. Crowley gave it a little spin once Aziraphale was on his back, suddenly changed into a light onesie. 

“Is that nice?” Crowley asked. Aziraphale still cried, but it was slowly easing into whines now that he was comfortable. Crowley sank to the floor and watched Aziraphale through the bars. “I’ll stay until you fall asleep.”

Aziraphale was successfully distracted by the mobile. He watched it spin and sway until he was quiet, and he fell asleep. He looked quite sweet sound asleep. Crowley always thought that Aziraphale should sleep more. His face relaxed, and his mouth always parted just slightly. He was a prettier sleeper than Crowley who tended to drool everywhere and wake up with tangles and creases from pillows on his cheek. 

Aziraphale woke up like Snow White. Crowley was sure that at least once, birds had flown in through the window to pull off his blankets and pull him up by his nightgown. 

In the end, Crowley watched him sleep for half an hour (and dozed for a few minutes himself (something he couldn’t blame himself for)) before returning to the kitchen with an ident of a crib bar on his forehead. 

Anathema’s face was buried in the bundle. She slowly took notes in the journal next to her with a column for questions and asterisks for information that had been in another source. Newt sat next to her, reading the parchment pages on his own as she discarded them and occasionally adding his own notes in the margin of the journal. 

“Did you find anything good?” Crowley asked, taking a seat. 

Anathema looked up at him. She took her glasses off, pushing them to the top of her head.

“Okay,” she said. “First things first: Beelzebub was the little one with the fly at the airfield base, right?” 

“Yes.” 

“And he was summoned to Earth in the 800s?” 

Crowley furrowed his eyebrows. He hadn’t noticed Beelzebub was on Earth at that time let alone being entrapped. The 800s were a busy time with the whole Holy Roman Empire business. Crowley couldn’t keep track of everything during a boring century let alone a busy one. 

Beelzebub was hardly ever out of Hell, _but_ they were the most well-known among humans. It didn’t surprise Crowley to hear that they, at one point, had found themselves in trouble. 

“The priest goes on for pages about how he began dabbling in the ‘Dark Arts’ years before or whatever, but then right here it says that there was a demon named Beelzebub in his rooms after a ritual.” 

“Huh.” 

“There’s a description that sort of matches them—from what we remember,” Newt said. “Small, sort of like an insect. Gave off ‘an air of an impression of grandeur.’” 

“Yeah, that’s them,” Crowley said. 

He thought back to anything that seemed out of place for the time and remembered the meetings that had been canceled in the 800s. He supposed that that was odd. He was never given a reason and had taken it as an excuse to run around with Aziraphale. Maybe it should have struck him as unusual. Maybe he should have wondered what was causing so many cancellations. 

When he did start going to meetings again, he supposed that Beelzebub had looked a bit gaunt. They were easily exhausted when meetings went on longer than a few minutes, and Dagon hung by their side almost constantly. Crowley had never mentioned anything about it, fearing being discorporated on the spot for telling his superior that they looked tired, and everything was totally back to normal within a year—a very short time for a demon. It had had little significance when he was busy taking an angel out on walks and attempting to influence world leaders. 

“You think you’d know something about this,” Anathema said, raising her eyebrow at him. “Considering they’re a prince of Hell and you… are from Hell.” 

“Do you think Hell sends out newsletters? What would have that one even said? ‘Mild Inconvenience: Lord Beelzebub will be out of office until further notice. They’ve gone missing on Earth. Redirect all correspondence to Vine.’ Those bastards didn’t even tell me when the dial-out number to the phones changed. I thought they were just down. I had to walk to IT. Do you know what IT in Hell is like? They’re very rude. They just laughed at me.” 

“Hell has an IT department?” Newt asked. 

“What really matters here is that we have a pretty solid account of an entrapment of Beelzebub, who’s still around. I’m sure it’ll tell us something,” Anathema said. “Or it could be like the other entrapment story.” 

Crowley hoped it wasn’t. The scrolls from the 4th-century entrapment vaguely told of a demon burning by Holy Water. It was a story passed around Hell every few centuries, and it had chilled Crowley every time. The scrolls gave few more details—a melting creature screaming in pain—and they had reminded Crowley of too much to dwell on. 

“It looks promising, though,” Anathema added. “I’ll keep looking through this if you want to look through some other journals again.” 

Crowley stared at the pile of books they had set aside for a second combing. The Holiness hadn’t worn off yet. The blessings and sigils were stuck on like glue. Reading them gave him headaches, and his fabric gloves were cumbersome. He really didn’t want to touch any of them again. 

But he did. He pulled on his gloves. He grabbed an occult book and opened it to the first page. 

Every few minutes, Anathema would read a line from her bundle to confirm that they were on the right path finally. Crowley didn’t fully listen—tension in his temples and behind his eyes made it hard—but was pleased to hear the word “pact” reoccur along with Anathema’s eager tone. She had a nice reading voice, and Crowley was sure that having to study a book of prophecies her whole life was a reason why. It was soothing despite her enthusiasm. She didn’t raise her voice too much, and it was deep enough that it didn’t strain Crowley’s ears. 

Aziraphale’s ear-piercing screams changed the atmosphere quickly. 

“What could he possibly want?” Crowley mumbled. 

“He might just need out,” Newt said, already on his feet. 

Crowley shook his head. There were plenty of quiet babies in existence. Why did Aziraphale have to be the one with super-human cries? 

“Uh…” Newt stood in the threshold of the kitchen. “You don’t have extra nappies, do you?” 

“He doesn’t need them,” Crowley said. 

Aziraphale had worn the same nappy every day so far, kept fresh and soft by miracles, but never actually used. It was a perk. 

“He does now,” Newt said, anxious to be stating such a fact. “There’s a bit of a mess. Everywhere.” 

Crowley didn’t believe that it would be that bad despite it being questionable that Aziraphale chose to empty his bladder for the first time in a week. 

“Oh.” 

It was that bad. Aziraphale was sat up in a puddle of his own waste. It ran up his back and soaked through his onesie and spread over his mattress. 

“Shit, angel. What happened?” 

The smell was horrendous. Crowley held him out at arm’s length as he rushed him down the hallway and into the bathroom. Looking around, Crowley decided the best place to put him was the claw-foot bathtub that was ill-prepared for a bathing a baby.

He unbuttoned the front of Azirpahale’s onesie and pulled it down to his waist. The poor thing’s back was covered in his mess, and it must have been uncomfortable. Crowley couldn’t blame him for his cries this time, though they made his head feel like it was being run over by a truck over and over. He wished for the relief a squashed head would give him. 

He wrestled Aziraphale completely out of the onesie and peaked down the back of his diaper. He gagged and reached for the faucet handles. 

“Is he okay?” Anathema asked from the doorway as Newt laid a towel and a flannel next to Crowley. 

Aziraphale kicked his legs as the lukewarm water surrounded him. His cries lessened slightly as Crowley began running the damp flannel up and down his back.

“Do babies normally shit themselves like this?” Crowley asked. 

“Sometimes,” Newt said. 

“Then I guess he’s fine.” Crowley reached for a bottle of organic flowery soap. He squeezed it onto the flannel and lathered it up as Anathema began protesting. “Just messy. And I’m sure he’d love privacy right now.” 

Anathema and Newt turned away. Crowley could hear Anathema finally ask Newt how he knew so much about children, and him beginning a story about younger cousins and natural childhood curiosity. 

Alone with Aziraphale, Crowley stroked his wet, red cheek with his thumb. “What’s wrong, angel? A bit of tummy trouble? I’ll get you out soon and we can have a cuddle.” 

Crowley returned to scrubbing down his back and legs and rinsing him under the tap. His diaper was bloated with water, but Crowley didn’t know how to properly diaper a child. And he didn’t want to. So, a miracle with his remaining energy gave him a clean, dry, diapered bottom as he was pulled out of the shallow water. 

“Does that feel better?” 

Crowley patted him dry with the towel and wrapped him up in it. Aziraphale didn’t protest. He rather enjoyed being bundled up in Crowley’s arms it seemed. It could have been the extra warmth or a feeling of security, but Aziraphale finally totally calmed. 

“Remember when we snuck to see Yeshua? After you booked all the rooms for Mary without telling anyone why? So, the innkeeper turned her away and she had to give birth with animals? Not your finest moment, angel. But do you remember when we got to see him? And he was wrapped in the smallest blanket until you ‘suddenly remembered’ that you had an afghan on you and wanted to give it to him? It was far too sappy for my tastes, but it made you all happy.” 

It had been a beautiful night. Crowley would never admit to how nice it was. 

Crowley slicked Aziraphale’s hair back. It was already curling again, little blonde waves never settling down for long. 

“You can sit with us if it keeps you quiet. But don’t you dare poop in my arms. Those are my terms. Deal?” Crowley grabbed Aziraphale’s tiny hand and shook it once. “There we go. And I’ll let you keep the towel.” 

When Crowley sat down with his angel burrito, he was expecting Aziraphale to grab at the books and wiggle around. Instead, he leaned into Crowley and held onto his towel. 

“Maybe he needs vegetables,” Anathema said. 

“Stop it with the vegetables. He’s fine.” Crowley looked down to Aziraphale, blinking heavily. “He just needs a little more sleep.” 

With one arm holding the baby and a gloved hand turning pages, Crowley continued reading long into the night until he fell asleep slumped in his chair.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Friendly reminder that there's a discord for this AU series where you can share recipes! You also get updates for this series as well as the other lovely works by other authors and other fandom news/discussion if you so wish. The invite link is: discord.gg/YS5qvrh


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some trouble with baby Aziraphale.

If someone were to listen in on the activity in the flat—say a government or supernatural agent with very up-to-date tech and strange abilities—they wouldn’t be able to guess that four people were currently packed inside, doing very important things. 

The only sound was Anathema’s gentle shuffling of papers and then a few rapid beeps. For the first time that week, there was only silent chaos. No screaming baby. No adults talking over one another excitedly. No demon threatening to send anyone to South Africa. Just silent panicking. 

Crowley slipped the thermometer out from under Aziraphale’s arm. “Is 38.8 bad?” 

Newt cringed from across the room. “It’s not… great. It’s probably less great for a baby.” 

Crowley pulled Aziraphale’s arm back into his sleeve and buttoned it up over his chest. Aziraphale didn’t seem to mind as long as he wasn’t forced to exert any energy himself.

After another messy accident and bath that morning, Crowley had noticed a flush to Aziraphale’s cheeks. He was suspiciously quiet and refused to eat—which Crowley thought was most alarming. Within an hour, he was quietly crying in Crowley’s arms and his eyes were fever-bright.

They had suspected that Aziraphale’s malaise didn’t spawn out of the blue. At this point, they had to believe that everything was related, but they had to pull together the evidence to prove so. If only to let them sleep better knowing Aziraphale had a human bug rather than an incurable supernatural disease. 

“So, what do we do?” Crowley asked. 

All of the children he had ever known miraculously avoided any serious illnesses. There was a stomach bug or a cold here and there but never anything that warranted serious care. 

“Do you want to take him to a human doctor?” 

“Of course not. Can’t we give him a pill or something?” 

“I don’t think you can give a baby a pill. Morally and physically it doesn’t seem right.” 

Anathema walked into the room, arms full of the parchment written by Bernard the priest and her own notes jotted down on notebook paper. Her hair was in a messy bun with strands hanging down around her face. Dark circles were smudged under her eyes. She had taken only a few hours to sleep before diving back into her reading, wrapped in a blanket and in sweatpants and a t-shirt that once belonged to Newt (which he was put out by as he had once complained that she hadn’t even _heard_ of the band before and it was one of his favorite souvenirs from the concert he went to the summer before) rather than one of her usual immaculate outfits. 

“Why don’t you run out and get something that’s safe for a baby to take,” she said to Newt, putting a gentle hand on his shoulder. She turned to Crowley. “And you and I can talk.” 

Crowley laid Aziraphale in his crib. He didn’t put up a fuss and settled easily, little hands falling to his sides and flushed face relaxing. Newt quietly gathered his keys and wallet and boots around the sleeping child, though Aziraphale’s fever had put him in a much-needed deep slumber and there was little chance of disturbing him. 

Anathema curled up beside Crowley and laid the papers between them. 

“I read ahead a little bit. Remember last night when you said it was weird that Beelzebub was burnt out after they had been there for a week?” She pulled out her notes that quoted Crowley saying so. “And we were going to keep our eye on that? Bernard finally mentioned it again. He says that Beelzebub seemed to have begun to ‘wither’ after so long. Like they were lethargic and sickly.” 

“Which could be from the general holiness of the place or anything Bernard was doing.” 

“Right. But, _then_ , it says that Beelzebub begins begging for a pact around the same time they became visibly ill. Bernard puts together that being on Earth must drain demons, but we know that that’s not true. I’m thinking it’s the rituals and pacts that fuck with how you guys live up here.” She looked to Aziraphale. “Or down here.” 

“Okay.” Crowley scrubbed his face. “So, a pact does affect us more than we thought.”

“And we’ve already said that intention is the biggest part of this.” 

“Have we?” 

“That’s what structures your powers, right? As long as you believe something, the universe bends towards it. If you expect to find milk in our fridge right now, there’d be milk. What I’m trying to get at is if demons or angels get summoned through a ritual that _intends_ to form a pact, and a pact isn’t officially ever made, then it has to have some awful effect beyond what we’ve seen so far. If Aziraphale’s pact was never actually sealed by the kids, then the… universe or whoever is still waiting on him to do something. He’s still in that weird limbo.

“What did the book the kids had say?” Anathema flipped through her notes until she found the first page of her neat scribbles. “‘And if your responsibilities are avoided, have God, Christ, and the Holy Spirit remove you of your power and grandiose, punished to be lower than those who summoned your presence. Remove you of all ability to work among Earth and companionship with humans.’ So, yes the kids fucked up their ritual and made Aziraphale physically and mentally lower than them, but the Greater Powers That Be knows that the intended purpose still hasn’t been fulfilled. The contract wasn’t breached. There was no contract to begin with, and the universe is an impatient lawyer wanting to get to court.”

Beautiful, intelligent humans. 

“And Beelzebub knew how pacts work, and that’s why they wanted to make a pact,” Crowley said. He dug his palms into his eyes until he saw an explosion of stars. “So, Beelzebub then and Aziraphale now are in the same boat.” 

“If Aziraphale’s purpose right now is to be part of a pact, the longer he isn’t sealing one, the worse he’s going to get. Maybe. This is just the theory I cobbled together while you were in here after my third cup of coffee. There’s still a chance it has nothing to do with the pact and Aziraphale picked up some bug after putting everything in sight in his mouth.” 

_Bloody_ beautiful humans. They were so smart. For all the trouble they caused, they could make up for it tenfold.

They needed to reset the pact, and it’d be well again. It would be an easy solution to such a massive problem.

“If it’s the pact, then maybe all you need to do is summon him yourself and finish the process.” 

“Oh.” Anathema blinked. “I’ve never done that sort of occult work before.”

“It’s easy. Go downstairs,” Crowley said. “Under the rug in the front of the shop is a circle. There’s candles in one of the drawers of the front desk. Set it up and read the ritual, and you should summon Aziraphale if you ask for a really nice sort-of demon and think of him. Think of him hard. I’ll stay up here with him until you get him.” 

“Will he be okay?” 

“He’ll be fine.” At least, Crowley supposed he would be. “As long as you don’t fuck it up.” 

“What do I do after he’s there?” 

“Make a pact. Grab any of the occult books you’d like.” 

“How do I make a pact with a baby?”

“Simple words. Pictures. He’s not blind and deaf.” 

“What kind of pact do I make with him?” 

“I don’t know! Ask him to make breakfast for you tomorrow or… go on a walk with you.” 

Anathema gathered her papers and bustled out of the room. A second later, she was in the doorway again. 

“There’s been an entrapment circle down there this entire time?” 

“Strictly speaking it’s never been used for entrapment. It’s multi-purpose, but,” Crowley waved his hand, “go on. We have a sick baby on our hands.” 

Crowley sat on the floor next to Aziraphale. He stuck his fingers through the bars as far as he could and wiggled them. Aziraphale continued to sleep. 

“Don’t worry, we have a descendent of Agnus Nutter herself doing this. Can’t trust anyone any more than her,” he said. “And if she fucks it up, I’ll deal with her.” 

Crowley listened to Aziraphale’s sleeping sounds. His little nose was becoming congested, and his breathing was loud and harsh (or as loud and harsh as it could be coming from such a tiny thing). He slept soundly, though, and Crowley supposed that that was the best as it was going to get. 

It would be only a matter of minutes before Aziraphale was back in his old corporation and could take a long nap in a proper bed in proper pajamas, and Crowley could join him. He imagined rushing downstairs just in time to see Anathema start the pact and watching Aziraphale transform before his very eyes. Maybe he should bring a blanket for decency’s sake. Maybe a glass of water as well in case Aziraphale didn’t feel well still. 

A sick baby, Crowley realized, was terrifying. Aziraphale was so small and seemed so miserable now. And he couldn’t say what was wrong with him. He couldn’t tell Crowley if he had a headache or a tummyache or if he was chilled and needed a thicker onesie. He couldn’t ask for a cup of tea to soothe his throat or a glass of water to wet his parched mouth. Crowley had to guess what his now even-needier angel wanted based off of his uncomfortable wiggles and wailing.

Crowley continued watching Aziraphale sleep until he realized a significant amount of time had passed. Maybe he should have helped Anathema roll up the carpet (it could be quite heavy for humans) and find the candles. He debated checking on her, but he also didn’t want to leave Aziraphale’s side. The book girl could get him if she needed any help. In the meantime, Aziraphale needed company. 

Crowley’s phone buzzed after 45 minutes of sitting on the floor. “What?” 

“I don’t think it worked,” Anathema asked. “Is he still with you?”

“Yeah. Did you do the whole thing?” 

“Of course I did.”

“Try another one.”

“I’ve tried three.” 

“Come back up here, then. You must have done something wrong.” 

Crowley tossed his phone to the side, his heart sinking. It was supposed to work.

 _Shit._

“We’ll figure it out, angel. Should only be a few more hours.”

Aziraphale’s eyes opened for a moment to look at Crowley. He coughed once. 

* * *

The flat looked like a crime scene. 

Parchment had been tacked to the walls in the kitchen, flagged with colorful strips of sticky notes and accompanied by hand-written notes. The kitchen table was covered in additional parchment and notes and pens and highlighters. Below them, Aziraphale’s circle and candles were still exposed to the world after more failed attempts at rituals.

“So,” Anathema said. “What do we do now?”

“I don’t know,” Crowley said. “If we can’t summon him, then we’re fucked.” 

Despite how much work they had put into organizing their notes, they had come up with a fairly short list of solutions that read as follows: 

  1. _Have a better human try to summon Aziraphale (though Anathema and Newt rejected the idea of a “better” human_  
  

  2. _Drive back to Sussex and have the kids re-create the ritual and have them complete it. Reinstate their memories first.  
_ _↪ like calling a phone and getting a busy signal?_  
  

  3. _Deal with a discorporation and scare the shit out of Heaven to get Aziraphale back  
_ _↪ less than ideal_



“I still think it’s worth consulting another demon,” Newt said. 

Crowley dragged his hand through his hair. At the very bottom of the page, in hopes that it would be forgotten about, Crowley had written: 

  1. _Return to Hell. Talk to Beelzebub. Ask for help._



It made sense to Newt. If there was a demon who had survived what Aziraphale was going through, why not talk to them once they were truly desperate. Anathema understood the complexity of asking for help—on many levels, in many different contexts. 

It was exceptionally hard for Crowley. He wasn’t exactly welcomed in Hell, and if he were to visit, he would have to be careful about what he did and said. He would have to face the people who had tried executing him and pretend that his rogue-angel husband wasn’t terribly vulnerable at the moment all while keeping up the facade that he was immune to Holy Water. 

What if they could finally call his bluff? And what if he got trapped down there? Anathema and Newt would be forced to care of Aziraphale until what? The poor thing withered away. Beelzebub, they had read by the sadist Bernard who kept Beelzebub in his rooms like a kid disposed to be a serial killer kept a dying caterpillar in a jar, was in poor shape before the journal entries ended. They were unable to raise their head on their own, Bernard reported, and had grown as grey a corpse. 

Crowley blinked back tears thinking about Aziraphale in that state. And then thinking about the trauma he would have to put Anathema and Newt through by forcing them to take care of a dying infant (even if he wasn’t truly dying and not truly an infant) if he were to get stuck in Hell. 

He patted Aziraphale’s back, still adorably plump and in a new onesie with an elephant on the front. Reminding himself that the worst-case scenario hardly ever happened, he tried making peace with the idea of visiting Hell. 

Bluffs were created when the potential for reward was worth the risk, and they would have to ensure that the risk would be minimal. Aziraphale had told him all about the reactions of the demons, once they finished their lunch at the Ritz after their executions. After their giggles died down and the reality of what had happened sank in and they sat in the bookshop together with coffee. 

Aziraphale had said that the demons looked genuinely frightened. Michael was speechless, terrified. Everyone was afraid to come close for fear of being splashed by Holy water and for fear of anything else “Crowley” might be able to pull. As Aziraphale was leaving, he looked over his shoulder and watched Beelzebub slowly sit on the ground. 

Crowley said that Beelzebub had never acted so defeated before. Aziraphale corrected him. It wasn’t defeat. It was genuine shock and horror. It was like The Fall, then, Crowley suspected. When no one knew what to do and sat around trying to cope with the physical pain and emotional stress. 

Beelzebub was already broken, Crowley thought. He wasn’t a masochist. He wouldn’t harm them. He probably couldn’t. But they believed that he could, and that was a good start. Their defenses would be high, but their confidence would be low. That was, if Crowley even got that far.

“What would I even say to them?” Crowley asked. “It’d be a miracle if they even see me. I doubt Hell is really going to let their rogue demon talk to the prince.” 

“Is there anything you could trade for information?” Newt asked. “Like how they do in spy films?”

That piqued Crowley’s interest if only because of the comparison to a spy film. He itched to watch a Bond film. Bond films meant that things were back to normal and Aziraphale was sitting in a theatre or on their sofa, not even paying attention to what was happening on the screen. 

It also meant that he could back to pretending that he was capable of pulling off big schemes like 007 rather than having to actually try his hand at them. Though, trying his hand at them had been a bit fun once he worked through the trauma of it.

Anathema gestured to the parchment around them. “Think Hell would want this information?” 

Crowley looked around at their crime scene. “I wonder if Hell ever had any of this before Heaven and Aziraphale got their hands on it. Beelzebub might want to trash it if they knew it had been kept in a human bookshop.” 

“It might be worth trying,” Newt said. 

“Let me get pictures of everything first. Just in case we need a backup.”

Anathema began bustling around the room with her cell phone, taking pictures of the parchment and their notes before taking them off the walls, stripping them of their flags, and laying them together again as if they had never been touched. Newt looked at his watch and prepared another syringe of medicine for Aziraphale. 

Things were happening, then. Crowley had been teetering on the edge of a cliff, preparing to dive, and the couple had pushed him off. 

Crowley walked to the sink, Aziraphale on his hip and grumpy at being moved. He rummaged through the overhead cabinets until he found a re-usable, steel bottle. 

“D’you mind if I borrow this?” he asked, but before he got a response, he filled it with water and screwed the cap on. 

His hands shook as he handed Aziraphale over to Newt, who cradled him and began pushing the medicine in his mouth. Aziraphale whined and turned his head away, trying to avoid the nasty liquid. 

Crowley didn’t want to do this. 

Last time he saw anyone from Hell, they had ganged up on Aziraphale, hitting him over the head and dragging him away. He remembered the sickening thud of metal against his head and then the thud of Aziraphale (well, technically it was his own body) hitting the pavement. 

The entire ordeal kept Crowley up many nights. It was horrifying enough to be forced to watch someone crack you over the head with a pipe, but it was gut-wrenching to know it was actually the person he cared most about in the universe receiving the abuse. And then not knowing what was happening after they were pulled away from one another. 

Aziraphale reached one arm out to Crowley, seemingly too weak to do anything more to signal he wanted comfort. 

“I’ll be back soon,” Crowley said, tucking the little arm against Aziraphale’s chest. “I just have a little demon to see.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I hope that everyone is enjoying this story still! Remember that there is a Discord for this series where you can read recipes and learn how to read early updates to this fic!

**Author's Note:**

> If you'd like to read more of my vlogger AU stuff (headcanons, asks, ficlets, fanart, etc.) check out my Tumblr, mostweakhamlets!
> 
> I also have links to original stories and projects there if you'd like to check those out!


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